In the very first thingo entry, I mentioned that the whole motivation for thingo came out of a resolution made while visiting Annecy, France two years ago. Well, tomorrow I head back to where it all began. That's right, I'm leaving for another trip to Annecy tomorrow. I'm excited, because they've erected a monument marking my decision to establish thingo. I look forward to seeing the monument placed in this site's honour.

Actually, one reason I am excited is that unlike last time, I'm flying in to Geneva, and I've got a couple of days to kill before I need to be in Annecy. I plan to see some sights in Switzerland, although I still haven't settled on what those might be. Current contenders are Zermatt, with a view of the Matterhorn, and Montreux, where I might visit the Chillon castle. Either sounds great.

On a practical note, you should expect that after tonight, thingo will lie dormant for about a week (not that this is out of the ordinary). I'll write again when I return.

As I was walking home from the bus just now, I saw an interesting sight: a black VW Beetle with the license plate "2GOTH4U". Now, there were many problems with the message implied by this license plate. To begin with, the driver didn't look remotely goth -- she was wearing an insconspicuous amount of makeup, and she was wearing a distinctly un-goth Gap-esque outfit. Moreover, although it was black, a VW Beetle doesn't strike me as a particularly goth car. It's a little too cute, too smart; it fails to inspire the angst and brooding that accompanies the goth lifestyle. The only car I can think of that exudes goth is a hearse, but I do know that a Bug doesn't qualify.

Finally, on a philosophical level, I don't think that a goth person would advertise their disposition on a license plate. The act just seems to betoken a level of ambition and positive introspection that belies the underlying attitides of goth. And maybe I'm too much of an outsider to judge accurately, but it seems to me that while every goth strives to be more goth than those around them, none would ever claim to be the most goth. Perhaps the license should read "AMIGOTH". Or "SORTAGOTH". Or "WISHICOULDBEMOREGOTH". I guess you'd have to find a state that allows 20-letter license plates for that last one.

For lack of anything especially interesting to write about, and because it has been a week since my previous entry, I thought I'd post some recommendations. Naturally, these recommendations are accompanied by philosophical musings...

Nath complains that I have a habit of inflicting my tastes and interests on others, particularly her. If I read or watch or hear something interesting, then obviously everyone ought to read or watch or hear that thing for their own personal betterment. Of course, she's absolutely right. I do have this habit. One reason is that I don't keep much to myself. Another possibly more valuable reason is that I've often benefitted greatly from the random recommendations tossed out to me during conversation, and I like to return the favour to the world at large.

Plenty of personal web pages will fill you in on the author's list of favourite books, movies, albums, artists, and so on. I vascillate between finding these pages interesting and finding them tedious. The Thingo side of my personality votes for tedium, which is why you won't find that kind of list here. But I don't mind providing Thingo-centric reviews of recent books and movies:

The Curse of the Jade Scorpion

A recent Woody Allen movie about an insurance investigator who becomes an unwitting participant in a complicated post-hypnotic string of jewelry thefts. Allen's stilted delivery is a perfect complement to his script's painful one-liners. Amusing, but ultimately forgettable.

The Anniversary Party

A couple of celebrity-types celebrate the sixth anniversary of their tumultuous marriage by inviting over their Hollywood friends. But as the evening progresses, layers of social armor are peeled away and the interactions deepen and intensify. Written, directed, and starring Alan Cumming and Jennifer Jason Leigh, with their Hollywood friends, including Kevin Kline and his entire family. Also interesting is that the movie was shot on digital video, but doesn't have the nasty, gritty quality of Dogme films. A brilliant movie, totally worth seeing, especially if you enjoyed other antisocial epics such as Happiness and Your Friends and Neighbors.

Empire Falls

If you haven't read anything by Richard Russo, then, well, that's too bad, because he's a really good writer. I heartily recommend Nobody's Fool, Straight Man, and now Empire Falls, his most recent novel. It's the story of Miles Roby, inhabitant of a small Maine town, and the expanding circles of family, friends, acquaintances, and evil cats that shape his life. I don't want to say too much more, partly because it's hard to pick just one thing to focus on, and partly because I'm still digesting the book. Just go out and read it.

The voice mail system at Nath's office has undergone a sequence of changes over the past few months. For a while, when I called, her caller ID showed the incoming call as originating in Egypt. We played along, and started greeting each other using the phrase "salaam aleikum".

Well, that pesky glitch has since been fixed, and Nath's phone system seems to have settled into a reliable configuration. But here's what I don't like. When I dial Nath's direct phone number, I am connected not to her, but to a recording that says her name followed by, "if you would like to connect directly to this person, press the pound key now".

Now, I may not be a usability expert. But WHAT KIND OF IDIOTIC INTERFACE IS THIS? When I call someone, I'd like the phone system to operate on an assumption of a sensible default behaviour, i.e. that I'd like to talk to that person. I haven't ever bothered to listen to the other options available when Nath's personal virtual receptionist answers her phone, because, as I've mentioned, when I call her it's usually to talk to her.

That's all, I just wanted to rant for a second. I suppose that if I really wanted to make a difference, I would track down the company responsible for this voice mail abomination, and call them to complain. But frankly, I tremble to think of the gruesome voice mail maze that would greet me at their customer service line.

Well, most of you know this already, but the impenetrable mists that used to be my future have mostly resolved themselves into a clear path. After the brief anxiety that marked the interval between a verbal offer of employment and the arrival of a formal offer letter, it appears that I have secured myself a career in academia. The offer letter was signed and sent back, and I've already been in touch with the moving company under contract to my future employer regarding upcoming moving arrangements (to be undertaken at their expense, naturally). I'm excited about the future, and very satisfied with the parameters of the offer (indicating either that they made a generous offer immediately, or that I was naïve not to negotiate; I never felt the need to do so).

By the end of my pleasantly short interview season, it was clear what my choice was going to be. Yes, I've had to compromise on some of the goals I set for myself for the future (like living near either water or mountains, or preferably both), but I'll be joining a collection of professors and students with whom I stand a good chance of doing something important with my knowledge and talents. Also, there's no question that this is Nath's top choice. It's a pleasure to accommodate her after dragging her out to the Northwest for four years (almost to the day, in fact). Anyway, farther down the road, I can reflect on the wisdom of my decision from the comfort of our retirement chalet in the rockies. You'll all be welcome to visit.

I've actually known this for a couple of weeks, and haven't posted it here. You may think that this is another manifestation of the subtle personality differences between Craig and Mr. Thingo. In fact, in this case it's just laziness that prevented me from posting the news.

One aspect of this posting that is a manifestation of thingo's status in my life is that I'm not going say where I'm going, so that I can preserve some sense of anonymity. Yes, it's a large, Canadian university, and it's where I went for my undergraduate degree (I don't think I've ever said on thingo where that was). If you really need to know, feel free to send me an email and ask me.

The other day I ran my hand over my brow and came away with what must have been an inch-long hair on my finger. It didn't look like a hair that had come from the lower reaches of my hairline, and it certainly wasn't an eyelash. It could only have come from an eyebrow, and yet this giant would surely have drawfed its neighbours in its original habitat.

Today brings the astounding confirmation -- some of my eyebrow hairs are starting to get really long. I see them coyly trying to blend in, but they stick out like sequoias in a wheatfield. And you know that this is just another part of getting older. It's not an aberration, but a harbinger of a browline to be.

There's only one thing to hope for. I must hope that what are currently just a few mutant hairs develop into full-fledged Big Eyebrows, the kind that leap upward from one's browline, forming elaborate whorls at the sides of one's forehead and endowing one with a permanent inscrutable, inquisitive look. The kind that can be waxed like a moustache (though I would never do such a thing). I mean, that can be the only positive outcome of such hairs. I must do everything I can to ensure this future. Are there exercises you can do to promote growth of eyebrow hair?

Hmmm -- if the Big Eyebrows don't work out, maybe I can just transplant some of those hairs to the top of my head...

Every now and then, in the early morning, in that nebulous, dreamy, receptive state that precedes wakefulness, I think up some pretty weird shit. I guess that it's a combination of the free-flowing thought process of dreams and the psychological gearing-up for another day of being a smartass.

This morning I was dreaming that I had to go to the library to look up an article in a publication called the Journal of Egalitarian Studies, or JES. And I remember thinking what a strange concept that was. Would every article be the same as every other one? Would the referees accept every submission on the grounds that they shouldn't exclude anybody from the process? I woke up snickering about the JES, knowing I had the smartass remarks all ready in case such a situation ever arose in real life.

My dreams usually make only a minimal amount of sense, so it's always fun to encounter as cohesive a notion as the Journal. Maybe the vivid dreams were caused by watching Waking Life recently (great movie), or maybe by going to see the Director's Cut of Amadeus in the theatre last night (one of the greatest movies ever made, F. Murray Abraham is a genius). Whatever the case, I hope my account of Egalitarian Studies makes sense to you. If not, it's all the same to me. Ha!

A few weeks ago Nath had her ultrasound. Because of technological backwardness, the results of the ultrasound have to be sent from the imaging lab, up one floor, to the clinic, via FAX. Sheesh -- haven't these people ever heard of carrier pigeons or pneumatic tubes? To make a long story short, the ultrasound results didn't make it up to the clinic while we were sitting there, so rather than have us wait, they said there were probably no problems, and we could hear the formal results during the next visit.

Sure enough, when we went back last week for another visit, they had the results on file. Get ready... Nath and Zebula have been declared "grossly normal". Wildly, utterly, stunningly, stupefyingly normal. In other words, Nath's is a tremendously boring pregnancy. Which, needless to say, is exactly the way we like it.

It's a good thing they didn't run the ultrasound on me. I'm sure the analysis would have come back as "normally gross".

My local public radio station ran its pledge drive last week. The house was therefore unusually quiet, as the radio remained off for a number of days. Don't get me wrong -- I don't mind being asked for money. But, if you'll forgive the use of a non-PC term for a moment, this is the week where our friends at public radio become massively retarded.

The problem is simple, really. The radio station sets a high target for the amount of money they'd like to collect, and that means the pledge drive has to continue for almost a week. And there are only so many different ways you can ask for money. The format requires them to interrupt programming at regular intervals with ten minute pleas for donations. Once they've given the local phone number, toll-free long distance number, and web address, they still have nine minutes and fifty seconds to fill with compelling reasons to give. But the simple, direct arguments are all exhausted in the first hour of the pledge drive, and the local hosts are forced to come up with ever more abstruse and creative metaphors for "send us money". And meaning no offense, these local hosts were not hired for their improvisational talents. As the week grinds on and they become ever more punchy, the pledge breaks begin to take on a stream-of-consciousness, free-associative feel that makes them somewhat painful to the ears:

Admittedly, I did hear one funny moment, delivered by a producer at my station who was hired out of a local sketch comedy group:

If public radio listeners or supporters are reading this, they might start grumbling about how I should put my money where my mouth is, pledge support, and help end the drive early. Well, I sent in my cheque months ago, when they sent a letter warning of the upcoming pledge drive. My conscience is clear. And because I declined any free gifts, I am simply exercising the reward of ridiculing them in public.

Yesterday, May 2nd, 2002, was mkdir thesis day. Let me explain

It all started one day when Corey asked me if I had done mkdir thesis yet. mkdir thesis is the command you would use in UNIX to create a directory called "thesis"; so Corey was asking if I had crossed the threshold and gotten close enough to finishing that I needed a directory to hold what would eventually become my dissertation. At the time, I hadn't created a directory. Corey explained that he had, but that when he did, the gesture seemed hollow, premature. He felt as if he wasn't truly ready. His reverence of the moment imbued mkdir thesis with a deep significance, and I decided not to attempt it until I felt more ready, more resolved.

Yesterday turned out to be that fateful day. I sat down and created a directory (actually, I chose to call it "phd" rather than "thesis", but the principle is the same). Happily, the operating system accepted my attempt to create a directory, and thus begins the beginning of the end.

Now, you may ask, what does one do with a freshly-minted thesis-holding directory? Well, another bit of wisdom among the graduating students is that for the most part, your dissertation will be a concatenation of the papers you've written as a graduate student. Therefore, the first thing one does with the new directory is to construct a dummy dissertation that contains all of one's papers. I downloaded the appropriate LaTeX files that define a "skeleton" dissertation, and simply plugged in all my papers. The result was 134 pages of horribly-formatted, unreadable garbage. But it's definitely a promising start. That means that once edited, polished, and refactored to eliminate redundancy, let's say 90-100 pages of my dissertation are already written. The key is to go through and replace every instance of "this paper" with "this dissertation".

I still face one important question. When creating a paper as a LaTeX file, I never use the name "paper.tex". What shall I do with my dissertation, the Paper of Papers? The skeleton files provide a master file called "thesis.tex". Obviously, that will have to change. When I get inspired with a good name for the file, I'll post it here.